The farmhouse felt heavier that night. Shadows pooled in corners, and the metallic smell clung to the air thicker than ever. I paced the upper floor, my fingers tracing the cracks in the wooden railing, telling myself it was nothing. Just old wood. Just imagination. Just the echo of Rivergate bleeding into Blackwood.
Mia was supposed to be gone another night, visiting her parents, yet instinctively, I felt her presence. I told myself it was absurd. She was hundreds of miles away. And yet… something in the house whispered differently. The basement door. That heavy, locked door. Something gnawed at me. A memory I didn't know I had. A fear I couldn't place.
I went down first, drawn by instinct. Every step creaked. Every breath sounded louder than it should. The air grew colder as I descended. I had to see. I had to know. Someone was down there. Someone—or something.
Then I saw her.
Mia stood at the bottom, her hand brushing the lock as if testing the weight of it. I stepped forward, my voice trembling. "Mia… what are you doing here?"
She turned slowly, and the dim basement light caught her face. There was fear. Yes. But there was also clarity. And determination.
"I heard you," she said softly. "I knew you followed."
A surge of panic twisted in my chest. My heart raced, not just from fear, but from something darker inside me. She's the killer. That thought echoed sharply in my mind. And then… a voice I hadn't expected.
She's the intruder. She must be stopped.
Ryan. My brother. The part of me I had buried so deep that I thought it no longer existed. But he was here, shaping my thoughts, guiding my actions, demanding attention. And I obeyed.
I lunged.
Mia reacted faster than I expected. A flash of her hand, the sharp edge of a surgical reflex, and the world went black.
When I woke, my wrists and ankles burned. I was bound to a chair. My head throbbed, and the basement seemed impossibly silent. Above me, the low hum of electricity filled the room. And then I saw her—Mia—and next to her, Detective Charles Rowan.
"Ethan," Mia said softly, "you need to hear the truth."
My throat was dry. I tried to speak. "You… it's you. You're the killer. It's you!"
She shook her head. "No. You are."
The words fell on me like stones. My mind screamed, denied, resisted. "Impossible," I whispered. "I… I couldn't…"
Mia lifted a notebook from the table, its cover familiar and horrifying. My handwriting sprawled across the pages, neat in some spots, jagged in others. Dates, times, measurements. Ritual diagrams. Names. Sacrifices. Details I didn't remember writing. And yet… I recognized them.
Her voice cut through my denial. "You disappeared at night, Ethan. You acted alone. You planned. You executed. Every murder. Every detail. All of it…" She paused. "…because Ryan needed it."
The truth hit me like a punch to the chest. Ryan. My brother. The twin I couldn't save. The voice in my head I had long believed gone. The part of me that demanded his life be made whole—was using mine.
"You… you're saying I…" I stammered.
"Yes," Mia said, tears pooling in her eyes. "You are the killer. Not her. Not anyone else. You. And Ryan is still here, inside you, guiding your hands."
My mind spiraled. Memories I didn't know I had—the planning, the quiet stalking, the preparation of the victims—all returned in a torrent. I saw the security guard in Rivergate. The bachelor on the second floor. The limbs, the meticulousness. I had done it. We had done it.
Mia continued, her voice unwavering. "I didn't come to stop you with violence. I came to confront you. To make you see what's real."
Detective Rowan nodded silently, holding the ropes in place. Mia knelt in front of me, her hand brushing my cheek—not in comfort, but in recognition of the truth.
"You can't pretend anymore, Ethan. You aren't two people. You aren't 'possessed.' You created Ryan inside yourself. And he… he wants to live. He needed you to die."
I swallowed hard, the metallic tang of fear filling my mouth. The basement spun around me—the shadows, the smell, the silence. And then I understood. Every act, every murder, every carefully measured step—it had all been me, guided by the memory of Ryan, shaped by guilt, trauma, and grief.
Mia's voice cut through the haze one last time. "You have to decide, Ethan. Do you continue being him, or do you confront what you've become?"
I looked at the chains, at the notebook, at the woman who had loved both me and the memory of my brother. And in that instant, I realized that the real horror wasn't the murders, or the rituals, or the basement—it was me.
Ryan had survived inside me, shaping my actions, controlling my hands, guiding my mind. And now that I had seen him clearly, there was no going back.
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere beneath the floorboards, behind the door I had always feared, the presence waited—patient, silent, unstoppable.
And I knew, finally, that the blood on my hands was mine, and mine alone.